Thoughtless: A Poem

Birds move,

branch to branch,

and there is bliss, and love, and freedom

in the flutter of their wings—

a joy the mind cannot comprehend.

Butterflies float

through tall reeds and wildflowers

and land upon whatever bloom

best suits their need.

The mind cannot grasp—

how they know, thoughtless,

just where to land.

I sit, and I watch,

wondering where that joy and freedom has gone.

I suspect the mind.

I am suspicious of its ways.

So I trust the bird.

The butterfly.

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